"You are colour blind, Baron," observes Mrs. Steele, with a quiet smile. The Peruvian starts slightly. Had he forgotten her?
"Madame——" he begins.
"Hush!" I say, with uplifted finger, "I hear the bells of San Blas."
Mrs. Steele shades her eyes with one little grey-gloved hand, and looks intently towards the undulating outline of the coast. The flood of sunshine that bathes the world is flung back ceaselessly from the shimmering sea, till the poor eyes of mortals are dazed and blinded with the shifting splendour.
Beyond, the rugged coast of misty purple has rest and charm for the dazzled vision. There is a sympathetic interest in Mrs. Steele's beautiful face, and I knew her fancy, like my own, had restored the ancient Jesuit mission to the far-off headland, and the legend of consecrated bells—that still ring out from a tower long since crumbled—is fresh and vivid in her memory.
"I really believe I hear the bells, don't you, Mrs. Steele?" She puts the grey-gloved hand over her eyes as if she were tired.
"I could hear them, dear, if I were twenty."
"Vhat bells ees dthat?" The Peruvian turns away his fine head to listen. "I hear nodthing."
"You are the only one that hears them, Blanche; tell us what they say."
"Even Longfellow can't do that," I answer, "and his sense was so acute and fine he heard them half across the world."